WINTER IN THE MISSION.
The first few garments I made for Little Bessie were not a great
success. I had told Miss E. that I would be delighted to assist her in
any way that I could, never dreaming what would come; and she being more
in need of warm clothing for the children than anything else, with rolls
of uncut flannels, and baskets piled high with materials to be made into
underwear, said immediately that I might help with their sewing.
She then brought a piece of Canton flannel, and the shears, and put them
into my hands, saying that I might make two pairs of night-trowsers for
the baby. My heart sank within me in a moment. I made a desperate effort
to collect myself, however, and quietly asked if she had a pattern. No,
she had none. The child, she said, kicked the cover off her in the night
so often, and the weather was growing so cold, that she and Miss J.
thought a garment of the trouser description, taking in the feet at the
same time, would very well answer her needs, and this I was requested to
originate, pattern and all. Whatever should I do? I could more easily
have climbed Mt. McKinley! If she had told me to concoct a new pudding,
write an essay, or make a trip to Kotzebue, I should not have been so
much dismayed; but to make a garment like that, out of "whole cloth," so
to speak, from my own design--that was really an utter impossibility.
"O, well," she said, "I am sure you can do this well enough. It is not
such a very particular job; just make something in which to keep the
child warm nights, you know. That is all I care for," kindly added she,
as she closed the door behind her and went back to the kitchen.
Finally I appealed to Alma. She was busy. She had never cut out anything
of the sort, neither had Ricka nor Miss L., but I being a married woman
was supposed to have a superior knowledge of all such things. I admitted
that I might have a theory on the subject, but a "working hypothesis,"
alas, I had none.
Still I hung around Alma, who was an expert dressmaker of years'
standing in San Francisco.
"No, I can't cut them out, really; but why don't you make a pattern from
some garment on hand?"
Here was an idea. Something to build upon.
"But there are the feet, and the waist?" I said still anxiously.
"O, build them on to your pattern," she said carelessly; as if anyone
with half an eye and one hand could do that sort of building, and she
left the room for more important matters.
There was nothing else for me to do. I secured a suit of the baby's
clothing throughout, and, taking the cloth, the shears, and an old
newspaper, I went upstairs to Miss J.'s room and closed the door. I
wanted to be alone. I longed to have my dear old mother there for just
one short hour, for in that time I felt certain she would have cut out
these as well as other garments, enough to keep us for weeks sewing, as
her own babies had kept her at one time.
However, there was no help for me, and I went to work. For an hour I cut
and whittled on that old newspaper, along with a number of others,
before I got a pattern that I fancied might do. Then I submitted it to
Miss J. herself, who told me to go ahead and cut it out. It appeared all
right, so far as she could see. Then I cut, and basted, and tried the
garment on Bessie. It was too wide across the chest, too short in the
legs, and the feet were monstrosities. What was to be done, I asked of
the others?
"Make new feet, and sew them on around the ankle," said Miss J.,
thoughtfully, surveying her little charge from all sides, as the child
stood first on one foot, then on the other, "then you can lengthen the
legs a little if you want to," careful not to offend by criticising
abruptly, but still feeling that the height of the gearing should be
increased.
"Dear me, that's easy enough," suggested Alma, "just put a wide box
plait down the front, like that in a shirtwaist, and it will be all
right."
"The back can be taken out in the placket," and Ricka folded and lapped
the cloth on the little child's shoulders, and then we called Miss E.
from the kitchen. After making a few suggestions in a very conservative
way, as if they did not come readily because the garment was just about
right; she left the room hastily, saying her bread would burn in the
oven; and I thought I heard her giggling with Miss L. in Swedish until
she ran away out into the woodshed, ostensibly for an armful of wood;
though if her bread were already burning I wondered what she wanted of
more fire.
I did not blame her; I laughed too. The little child looked exceedingly
funny as she stood there in that wonderful garment, with black eyes
shining like beads, and face perfectly unsmiling, as she nearly always
looks, wondering why it was we were laughing.
October twenty-fourth the boys worked all day at making the house more
comfortable for winter, nailing tar paper upon the north side, where
some clapboards were missing, putting on storm or double windows outside
of the others, and filling the cracks with putty. A couple of the boys
also worked at hauling supplies of apples and potatoes from the
warehouse by dog-team, putting the eatables into the cellar under the
kitchen, which was well packed in with hay. This cellar was a rude one,
and in summer frequently filled with water from the surface and the hill
above the house, making it not altogether wholesome at times, but by
management, it was still being used for some things, and of course, in
cold weather, it made no difference, for everything was solidly frozen.
Snow enough had fallen by this time, a little coming quietly down every
few hours, to make fair roads for the sleds, the ground being quite
hard; while Fish River and adjoining creeks were fast freezing over, as
were also the waters of the bay.
In the evening Mr. H. came in, and we all gathered in the sitting room,
some sewing, some mending, but all chatting pleasantly. The missionary
had just been informed, he told us, of a gold strike on the Kuskokquim
River, some one having only recently returned from St. Michael, and
brought the report. From that place men were leaving for the new
diggings each day, and it might or might not prove a bona fide strike.
With reindeer, on a good winter trail, this distance would not be a
formidable trip, Mr. H. told us.
This was the information we wanted to hear, and it probably started a
train of golden dreams that night in more than one head, which was long
in stopping, especially when he informed us that every acre of land
around us was then staked out in quartz claims, though no extensive
prospecting had yet been done, and we were pleased at finding ourselves
"so near" even though we were "yet so far."
Today was a birthday for Mr. G., and he was teased unmercifully for his
age, but would not give it, so those who had known him the longest tried
their best to figure it out from incidents in his life and from
narratives of his own, and made it out to their satisfaction as about
thirty-two years, though he refused (like a woman) to the very last, to
tell them if they were guessing correctly.
The next day it still snowed a little at intervals between clouds and
sunshine, and all "tenderfeet" were more comfortable indoors. Miss E.
and Ricka had gone the day before with the boys and Mr. H. to the Home
on a scow-load of lumber, though we feared it was pretty cold for them
without shelter on the water; but with the wind in the right direction,
they wanted to attempt it, and so started. They were to look the new
building over for the first time, Miss E. being much interested in the
inside arrangement of rooms, naturally, as it was to be her home and
field of labor, and rightly thinking a womanly suggestion, perhaps,
might make the kitchens more handy.
In their absence the rest of us continued our sewing, Miss L. taking
Miss E.'s place in the kitchen, with help from the larger Eskimo girls
at dish washing. The latter were docile and smiling, and one little girl
called Ellen was always exceedingly careful to put each cup and saucer,
spoon and dish in its proper place after drying it, showing a
commendable systematic instinct, which Miss E. was trying to foster.
Between times, their school not yet being in session, they played about,
either up in their rooms if it was too stormy outside, or out of doors
if the weather permitted; though, for that matter, they seldom hesitated
to do anything they wished on account of the weather, as it was not so
cold to the natives as to us. They played with balls, both large and
small, and sleds of all descriptions; and if the latter were not to be
had, or all in use, a barrel stave or board would be made to answer the
same purpose. It was a rush past the window down the hill, first by a
pair of muckluked feet, then a barrel stave and a boy, sometimes little
Pete, and sometimes John. One barrel stave would hold only one coaster,
and there were usually enough for the boys, but if by chance the little
girls laid hands upon the sleds before they did, the staves were then
their only resource. If a child rolled, by accident, upon the ground, it
never seemed to matter, for in furs he was well protected. The snow was
soft, and he, being as much at home there as anywhere, seemed rather to
like it.
If he was seen to fall, it was the signal for some other to roll and
tumble him, keeping him under as long as possible, and it was a frequent
sight to see three or four small boys tumbling about like kittens,
locked in each other's arms, and all kicking and shouting
good-naturedly. Snowballing, too, was their delight, and their balls
were not always velvety, either, as the one stopping its course could
affirm.
These children did little quarreling. I cannot remember seeing Eskimo
boys angry or fighting, a thing quite noticeable among them, for nowhere
in the world, perhaps, could the same number of white children be found
living so quietly and harmoniously together as did these twelve little
dark-faced Eskimos in the Mission.
Our days were now growing much shorter, and it was necessary to light
the lamps at four o'clock in the afternoon, the sun having set some time
before. The sunset skies were lovely in bright and tender colors,
reflecting themselves as they did in the water of the bay, and tinting
delicately all surrounding hilltops. What a beautiful sight it was, and
how sadly we remembered that very soon the water would have disappeared
under the solid ice, there to remain for long months imprisoned. Little
did we then know that the heavenly beauty of the Arctic sky is never
lacking, but close upon the departure of one season, another, no less
beautiful, takes its place.
Diary of October twenty-sixth: Alma and I called today upon two
neighbors in the old schoolhouse next the church, by name Dr. H. and
wife. They claim to have come from Dawson not very long ago, being
shipwrecked on the way, and losing their outfit. She seems a chatty,
pleasant little body, and inclined to make the best of everything, her
hard lot included, and she is baking and selling bread to the miners.
She is a brave little woman, and could teach many a pampered and
helpless one lessons of great usefulness and patience. Miss L. is ill
with quincy and suffering very much, so Alma makes the bread.
I have just made four large aprons for Miss J., cutting them out and
making them, and they look really well, so I am quite proud of myself,
especially as Ricka has "set up" my knitting on needles for me, and I am
going to make some hose. I usually knit evenings, between times at the
organ, for my new yarn received from San Francisco is very nice, and
will make warm winter stockings.
Saturday, October twenty-seventh: We have four inches of snow on the
ground, and more coming. Miss L. is quite ill with her throat, and did
not get up today. Alma, too, is very pouty, with a swollen, pudgy face,
and feels badly. They both say they think they took cold coming from
Nome on the "Elk," and I don't doubt it, for I would have done so myself
only for my great caution in taking care of my newly shingled head and
in applying a thorough dose of fur muckluks to my feet, but, thanks to
them, I am the most "chipper" one at present.
Miss J. had Dr. H. examine Bessie today, and he says she has bronchitis,
but told the teacher what to do for her.
The two girls came back from the Home with Mr. H. and Mr. L. about four
o'clock after we had begun to be worried about them. They were hungry,
and Alma and I got dinner for them, when Mr. H. started back immediately
in a small boat alone, after it had begun to grow dark. We begged him
not to attempt it, but he insisted on going, as he must be there
tomorrow to push the work on the building, and the ice is floating, so
he fears it will freeze the bay over. The sun shone out beautifully for
three or four hours, and it is just one week today since we landed in
Golovin, a most pleasant week to us all (pattern making not included).
Later.--I helped with the housework and made two more aprons for Miss J.
There is nothing like feeling of some use in the world, is there?
Sunday, October twenty-eight: A clear, bright morning, growing cloudy
about noon, and dark at four in the afternoon, when lamps were lighted.
We had a long, restful day indoors, both Miss E. and Ricka being very
lame from their long walk of fifteen miles over the stony beach and
tundra covered hills from the Home, Mr. H.'s boat being too small for
four persons. By water the distance is called a dozen miles, but by land
and on foot it is much farther, as the girls have found by sad
experience; and they were very glad it was Sunday, and they could rest.
Miss E. said laughingly that we would play we were at home in the States
again, and so she spread the breakfast table daintily in the
sitting-room, with white cover, pretty embroidered centre-piece, and
snowy napkins, bringing real comfort to our hearts, accustomed as we had
been for so many months to bare necessities and none of the luxuries. A
fashionable breakfast hour for Sunday in the States was also affected in
order to make the plan complete, and because the mornings, growing
darker as they are continually doing, nobody felt in haste to leave
their beds. Of course every one wore his Sunday clothes and I put on my
very best waist of olive green satin with a good black skirt, which had
a little train, thereby effectively hiding my uncouth feet, still clad
as they are in the ungainly muckluks.
The ice is moving in the bay, and we hear that still another steamer may
come in, so we can send mail out to Nome, and write to have in
readiness. There have been no church services today, as Mr. H. is away
at the Home, but we had music and singing frequently, and Swedish hymns
all evening, which I play, but do not understand.
Monday, October twenty-ninth: This has been a bright, sunny morning
until a little after noon, when it grew cloudy, as it often does. Miss
E. was still very lame from her long tramp of last Saturday, and Ricka
and I assisted in the kitchen. Alma has cut out a pretty brown cloth
dress for Miss J. and is making it. Miss L.'s throat is better, and she
is out of her room again, after a siege of severe suffering with
quinsy, which caused a gathering. About nine in the evening Mr. H. came
in from the Home, having walked the whole distance, a boat being now
unsafe in the floating ice. After drinking some hot coffee, he related
to us his adventure of Friday night in the Peterborough canoe. He had
left us quite late in the afternoon of that day to go to the Home, and
it was already beginning to grow dark. For a while, he said, he found
open water, and made good time at the paddle, but presently found
himself alongside of and soon after crowded by floating ice.
It was young ice, and he did not have much fear of it. He kept on
paddling, but finally found himself entirely surrounded, and manage as
he would, he could not free his canoe. A breeze came up from the north,
which pushed him along with the ice out toward sea, for he was near the
mouth of the bay. There was nothing to do but wait. For an hour he
waited.
It was well on towards midnight, and he could see no escape. The
missionary, in relating the incident to us, did not dwell upon this part
of his story, but he said he had given himself up for lost, and only
prayed and waited. By and by the breeze died away, the ice quietly
parted, and drifted away from him, and he paddled safely ashore.
Tuesday, October thirty: A brand new experience today--that of watching
the natives and others fish through the ice. Little holes are made in
the ice, which is now quite strong in the north end of the bay near the
cliff, and the Eskimos sit there patiently for hours, fishing for
tom-cod. These are small fish, but quite tasty, one of the principal
means of subsistence for the natives, and are also much used by others.
No pole is needed on the line except a short one of three or four feet,
and when a bite is felt by the fisherman, the line is quickly drawn out,
given a sudden twitch, which frees the tom-cod, and he is summarily
dispatched with a few raps from the fishing stick kept at hand for the
purpose.
Several river boats, including small steamers, are laid up under the
cliff for the winter, dismantled of loose gear and light machinery, and
I did get a few views which should prove of some value. The weather was
good all day, the sun setting at three in the afternoon, and it being
nearly dark an hour later. Mr. H. dressed himself from top to toe in
furs, hitched three dogs to a sled, took a lunch for himself, a few
supplies of eatables for the Home camp to which he was going, and
started out, on a longer, but we trusted a less venturesome and
dangerous route than by Peterborough canoe. Our evening was pleasantly,
and at the same time more or less profitably spent by our party in the
sitting-room, Alma sewing on Miss J.'s new dress, Ricka and I knitting,
and the others either mending or busying themselves at something. This
something frequently covers a good deal of ground, for with one or two
of the boys it means pranks or roguishness of some sort, which really
enlivens the whole household and keeps our risibles from growing rusty
by disuse.
Wednesday, October thirty-one: I find no difficulty in running the
sewing machine here, which is a new and good one, and I like to use it
very well. Just how they could get along without it is more than I can
tell, with so much sewing to do for each of the children, not to mention
the others who are waiting to come into the Mission at the earliest
possible moment. During the day Mr. L. busied himself usefully in
several ways as he always does, and finally mended Miss J.'s guitar.
After supper we counted ourselves and found six women and a lot of
children, but he was the only man in the establishment, the others being
at the Home, and we hazed him considerably, all of which was taken most
good-naturedly. The bay is freezing more and more each day, with an
increasing depth of snow upon the ground.
A very unpleasant day as to weather was Friday, November second. Snow,
high tide, and wind from the south, which blew the water further yet
upon the beach; but we sewed all day, though I did not get much
accomplished. I gave Miss E. her first lesson on the organ today. Alma
is making herself a new dress skirt, as she has Miss J.'s wool dress
nearly finished, and it looks exceedingly well, fitting, as some one
remarks, "like the paper on the wall." Alma likes dressmaking, and does
it well, but draws the line at baby clothes.
Each day Miss J., the teacher, is now holding a little prayer meeting in
the kitchen for the natives. When the supper is cleared away, one of the
boys goes out and rings the bell, which is only a big, iron triangle
hung under three posts in the ground. A piece of iron is picked up and
put through the triangle, hitting it on both sides, and making a
ringing, vibrating sound which calls in the natives, who come
immediately, just as they are, and range themselves on the benches along
the walls. Those who can sing sit at the long table upon which are the
lamps and English song books, those used being principally Gospel songs.
One of the grown boys called Ivan is a very fair singer, and loves music
of all kinds. He is the interpreter for all meetings, understanding
English and speaking it quite well. None of the Eskimos are taught
Swedish--nothing but English.
Miss J. reads a song which she wishes them to learn, and Ivan interprets
it into Eskimo, verse by verse, afterwards singing it. Tunes are learned
more quickly than words, but they get the meaning from Ivan. Then Miss
J. reads the Scripture, Ivan interpreting verse by verse. She next
offers prayer in English, and calls upon some older native Christian to
pray in his language, after which they sing several songs with which
they are familiar. Having selected beforehand some passage from the
Bible, she reads and expounds that, being interpreted by Ivan; there is
a short benediction and the meeting is over. They seem to like very well
to come, and are never eager to go, but say little, not being great
talkers, even in their own tongue.
When the last Eskimo has departed, and the children are settled in bed,
the cozy hour of the day has arrived. For a good, old-fashioned tale of
love, fright and adventure, there is no time like a winter's night, when
the wind shrieks down the chimney and whirling snow cuddles into corners
and crannies. When supper is over, and the kitchen is well cleared, the
women of the house may take their yarn and bright needles, while the men
toast their feet at the fire and spin--other yarns, without needles,
which are, perhaps, not so essential, but far more entertaining to
listeners.
This is what we did that winter at Chinik, the home of the Eskimo, in
that far away spot near the Arctic Sea. There were tales of the Norsemen
and Vikings, told by their hardy descendants sitting beside us, as well
as the stories of Ituk and Moses, the aged, called "Uncle," Punni
Churah, big Koki, and "Lowri."
To the verity of the following narrative all these and many others can
willingly vouch.